Prudence and the Romantic Poet (The Three Graces #3)

Chapter 6

6

As Mr Shelbourne was a slim young man, and Prudence and Miss Kimpshott were slight in figure, they all sat quite comfortably in Mr Shelbourne’s curricle. The party of three had enjoyed many drives the past ten days since their rapidly advancing acquaintance had begun.

While Prudence found Mr Shelbourne to be a good hand with the reins, he did have a tendency to get distracted by looking at Miss Kimpshott, admiring the way her bonnet ribbons fluttered about her face like coquelicot butterflies or sapphiric damson dragonflies about a waterlily, as he explained, according to whether she wore her cherry trimmed bonnet or blue. To counter this dangerous tendency to distraction, Prudence insisted on taking the middle seat on the bench with Miss Kimpshott safely on her other side. From this position she could remind Mr Shelbourne when necessary to keep his eyes on the road or to watch the bend or to observe the oncoming carriage, or whatever helpful instruction the occasion required. It was also helpful, she found, to keep him engaged in rational conversation, for he sporadically drifted into mental compositions if his thoughts were not harnessed to more prosaic paths.

In this fashion they made a safe journey of the two and half miles to the villa of Lady Heath, wife of Viscount Heath of Hatherleigh.

‘The salon is after the style of Lady Miller of Batheaston,’ explained Mr Shelbourne. ‘Lady Miller was famous for her poetical assemblies. They were highly exclusive. Everyone went to them – dukes and duchesses, prime ministers, celebrated writers.’

Prudence had heard that Lady Miller had been an unlikely fashion leader, her manners vulgar and her poetry second rate, but she was too gracious to repeat such mean-spirited opinions.

‘Shall there be dukes there today?’ Miss Kimpshott enquired.

Mr Shelbourne shot her an anguished look. ‘No bachelor dukes,’ he said reproachfully.

‘Do watch that pothole, Mr Shelbourne,’ urged Prudence. Mr Shelbourne dragged his eyes back to the road.

‘I hear Lady Heath’s villa is in a delightful spot,’ said Prudence.

‘Delightful,’ admitted Mr Shelbourne gloomily. ‘You know,’ he said suddenly, and in a raised voice, ‘I shall inherit a baronetcy one day.’

Miss Kimpshott, turned her head from admiring the countryside and gave him a pitying smile which communicated without words that a baronetcy was not terribly impressive. ‘When?’ she asked.

‘When my cousin… er… dies. He has no sons, so it shall pass to me. Not that I wish him to die, you understand, but he will one day. We all do, you know.’

‘Is he old?’ asked Miss Kimpshott .

‘Well… that is to say… I think so. He is more than thirty.’

‘That is quite old,’ agreed Miss Kimpshott. ‘Is he married?’

‘No.’

‘Infirm?’

‘No. He is always in health.’

‘Is he abominably ugly or deformed?’

‘No, indeed. Why do you—?’

‘Then he is perfectly capable of marrying and having sons,’ was Miss Kimpshott’s practical conclusion. ‘I should not set too much store on inheriting his title.’

‘Is he your guardian whom you once spoke of?’ Prudence enquired.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Shelbourne, clearly crushed by Miss Kimpshott’s indifference.

‘The master of ceremonies said he was a man of a sizeable estate,’ said Prudence. ‘Is it far from Bath?’

‘Eight miles.’

‘Do you think it a good estate?’

‘As fine as anywhere,’ was the glum reply. Mr Shelbourne was sinking into dejection. Prudence was determined to pull him out of it.

‘Do tell me about it. What era was it built in?’

‘Sixteenth century in the oldest part. Been added to over the years. It’s a great sprawl of a house.’

‘Describe it to me.’

He sighed, but obeyed. His voice gradually lifting from dejection to a poetic lilt. ‘A timeworn facade, adorned in ivy’s grasp, whispering secrets among the rustling leaves, where shadows linger and memory weaves.’

‘Very pretty,’ said Prudence, encouraging him.

‘A queenly mansion, a tapestry woven with age, a sanctuary for the echoes of time, a guardian of secrets, silent and sage. Whispers of a bygone era in every stairway climb.’

He was drifting a little too far into the poetic now, and the curricle drifted into the middle of the road.

‘Do mind that oncoming dray, Mr Shelbourne.’

‘Shall you be disinherited of the house also when your cousin marries?’ asked Miss Kimpshott.

‘He is not going to marry,’ Mrs Shelbourne insisted. ‘But He says he will be glad to get rid of the place and would sell it if he could be sure the tenants and staff wouldn’t be turned out.’

‘Why does he dislike it?’ asked Prudence.

Mr Shelbourne shrugged. ‘Says he’d rather build his own house.’

‘Don’t you like him?’ asked Miss Kimpshott.

‘Not at present. The last time I saw him we had words.’

‘Guardians are very disagreeable,’ Miss Kimpshott sympathised. ‘Does yours want you married and off his hands as mine does?’

‘No. I dare say he would not consent to my marrying if I wished it. He does not like anything I do. We quarrelled because he wanted me to get involved in business. Said I needed something practical to do to divert my thoughts from my—’ Here he broke off, unable to repeat the reprehensible words his guardian has spoken. ‘I am a poet . I told him. It is my calling. What have I to do with business? I am a gentleman poet .’

‘He does not believe in your poetry?’ Miss Kimpshott’s question was unnecessary. Mr Shelbourne’s expression supplied the answer. ‘And why won’t he marry?’ continued Miss Kimpshott. ‘Is he a misogynist? Cousin Phyllis says most men are.’

A horrible idea seemed to strike Mr Shelbourne, he cried out, ‘You would not consider marrying an old curmudgeon such as my cousin, would you?’

Miss Kimpshott gave him a placid look. ‘Not if he is only a baronet. Cousin Phyllis would not allow it. Baronets are not aristocratic, you know.’

This laid to rest such a horrible idea in Mr Shelbourne’s mind, but then he recalled that if his baronet cousin was not high enough in the instep for Miss Kimpshott, he had no hopes of attaining her, and he lapsed into depression for the next quarter of a mile.

There were a half dozen carriages outside Heath Villa. Mr Shelbourne assisted the ladies from the curricle while a groom held his horses before leading them to the stables. A grave footman stood sentry at the villa entrance, and further footmen were stationed at various points to direct the visitors and take their coats and the gentlemen’s hats.

‘Is that Lady Heath?’ whispered Prudence, observing a lady in peach brocade and silver lace at the end of the long gallery they were walking through.

‘It is,’ replied Mr Shelbourne. ‘She always greets her guests in person.’

‘Why is she in costume?’ whispered Miss Kimpshott.

Lady Heath was in a hooped sacque dress from the last century and wore a mountainous powdered wig.

‘She likes to dress á la francaise ,’ explained Mr Shelbourne.

‘But why?’ said Miss Kimpshott.

‘Why not?’ was Mr Shelbourne’s reply, as though it were nothing surprising.

‘ Arthur ,’ greeted Lady Heath, holding out two hands to him, her fingers covered in jewels. The deep lace on her three-quarter length sleeves fell in silvery wings. ‘My best and brightest boy. Come and kiss me.’

It was Mr Shelbourne who was the recipient of a sound kissing on both cheeks, his face held firmly between Lady Heath’s glittering fingers. ‘Now who have you brought me today? A pretty little pair of doves to coo for me?’

The ringed hands were extended and Prudence took one in a polite handshake as Mr Shelbourne introduced her in a rhyming couplet, which seemed to be the expected form.

‘ I bring you a posey from whence roses embrace, and blossoms dance softly, adorning Miss Grace .’

Prudence was ready to laugh, thinking such lines were meant to be humorous, but Mr Shelbourne and Lady Heath looked perfectly serious, so she stifled her amusement and made a little curtsey and said she was delighted to make Lady Heath’s acquaintance and to have the pleasure of visiting her lovely home.

Miss Kimpshott was presented: ‘ A garden of paradise, where flowers bloom bright ‘neath Miss Kimpshott’s fair beauty, a radiant light .’

‘ Une beauté indeed,’ said Lady Heath, as Miss Kimpshott made a pretty curtsey and granted her hostess a sweet, dimpled smile.

‘Which of the flowers shall you pick, Arthur, mon petit amour ?’ Prudence heard Lady Heath say in confidential tone. ‘The dark or the fair?’

Mr Shelbourne sighed, saying, ‘Miss Kimpshott is the light of my life, but… alas… I have no hope.’

‘You have brought your poor heart to the right place, mon chéri ,’ said Lady Heath comfortingly. ‘Unrequited love is the poet’s food, is it not? Now, kiss me again, for I have not seen you in un age, mon doux. ’

The ladies were gestured into the room beyond to be greeted by a gentleman in satin breeches and a frock coat in the same peach brocade as Lady Heath’s gown. A waterfall of silver lace spilled from his neck and cuffs, and he wore a powdered wig with a long que tied with peach ribbon.

Prudence guessed it was Lord Heath, and was proved correct when the introductions were made and she and Miss Kimpshott had their hands pressed and kissed by their host, who was as affectionate in his greetings to female guests as his wife was to the gentlemen. It seemed that kissing the opposite sex with liberality was also very á la francaise.

The room seemed filled with strangers, but when Prudence took a seat and looked about her she counted only fourteen persons in all. She and Miss Kimpshott were the only newcomers, for everyone else seemed well acquainted, chatting and laughing and whispering in pairs and groups. A tall and very handsome gentleman stood in a prominent position by the fireplace, striking an attitude of Michelangelo’s David, his right elbow resting on the mantelpiece, his hand clutching something in his fist, his right hip lifted and turned to the left, his face turned to the right gazing steadily at something or someone.

‘ Shelbourne ,’ greeted a handsome lady with an impressive cascade of pearls about her neck. ‘Where have you been, darling boy? I have missed you.’

‘Lady Dewsbury,’ greeted Mr Shelbourne as he bowed and kissed the lady’s hand. ‘I only returned to Bath a fortnight ago. I have been working on a new collection of poems.’

‘You should not shut yourself away,’ scolded Lady Dewsbury. ‘Why does that cousin of yours allow it?’

‘He is always engaged in business,’ said Mr Shelbourne with the tone of a neglected soul. ‘He has tried to drag me into his affairs, but I have no mind for business, and so I tell him. I am only fit for art. So he has washed his hands of me. He thinks me an eccentric.’

‘He is an odd man, to be sure,’ sympathised Lady Dewsbury, giving a little shudder at the word business . ‘And more eccentric than anyone .’ She sighed. ‘Beauty and wealth are wasted on some persons. They cast themselves quite beyond the pale.’ Lady Dewsbury now turned her gaze towards Prudence and Miss Kimpshott, and Mr Shelbourne made the introductions. Lady Dewsbury welcomed them, running her eyes over every detail of their dress and features.

‘A new muse, my darling?’ whispered Lady Dewsbury to Mr Shelbourne with a knowing nod in the direction of Miss Kimpshott, whose name had been delivered by Mr Shelbourne in a reverential tone. Mr Shelbourne blushed a little, but Miss Kimpshott seemed wholly unconcerned. ‘You must tell me everything later,’ urged Lady Dewsbury.

A diminutive, elderly lady with twinkling eyes was sat near to Prudence. The lady leaned towards her, saying, ‘How do you, my dear? I don’t stand on ceremony, so I will introduce myself. Dowager Lady Heath. Who are you?’

Prudence shook the dowager’s hand, surmising that she must be the mother of Lord Heath. She was dressed in a regular style of gown in russet silk, with a neat lace cap on her un-powdered hair .

‘Miss Grace, ma’am,’ she replied. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’

‘Are you an aspiring poetess?’ enquired the dowager, with a twinkle that Prudence liked very much.

‘Sadly not, ma’am. I am fond of Shakespeare’s sonnets, but I read more prose than poetry. ’

‘Well you won’t hear any poetry here,’ said the dowager.

‘But I understood that everyone brought a poem,’ said Prudence.

‘Not a whit. Nothing but doggerel.’

‘I conclude you do not contribute any poetry?’ said Prudence.

‘Sometimes I do,’ said the dowager with another twinkle. ‘Just to liven things up. Have you brought an offering?’

‘I did collaborate with my young friend here, Miss Kimpshott, but neither of us have any talent for poetry, so I am very unwilling to submit it. Mr Shelbourne seemed to think it mandatory, so we complied as best we could.’

‘Put it in the vase, dear,’ was the dowager’s advice. ‘It cannot be worse than anything else you will hear.’

There was no time for any further introductions for Lady Heath glided into the room, her hand resting on the arm of her husband.

The tall gentleman at the fireplace shifted his pose into an attitude of the Apollo Belvedere, his head lifted and his left arm raised as though holding high a bow, though he held merely a sheet of paper.

‘ Mesdames et messieurs ,’ said Lady Heath, ‘ poètes et poétesses, welcome to our salon littéraire. James, would you do the honour of unveiling le vase !’

James was none other than Apollo himself. He unfolded his limbs, bowed theatrically to Lady Heath, and moved gracefully to the end of the room where a marble pedestal bore an object draped in red velvet. He slowly lifted the velvet to reveal a large Etruscan-style krater – a deep bowl-shaped vase with two handles.

There was a little ripple of applause at this unveiling. The unveiler made an Emperor Claudius attitude, one arm holding high his sheet of paper, the other held out to the guests, beckoning them and saying, ‘Ladies, bring forth your odes to The Vase .’

Miss Kimpshott held the few lines she and Prudence had laboured over for almost half an hour the previous day. Prudence blushed at the thought of them being read aloud, for they were written in a spirit of amusement. Miss Kimpshott made a graceful little figure as she dropped the folded paper into the mouth of the vase, dimpling adorably up at Emperor Claudius who regarded her in return with obvious admiration. Mr Shelbourne, seeing this exchange of smiles, clenched his fists and jaw. When it was the turn of the gentlemen to deposit their poems into The Vase, Mr Shelbourne glared at the impudent rival who looked back with a haughty and challenging air.

‘Have nothing to do with Lord Carlyle,’ Mr Shelbourne warned Miss Kimpshott as he returned to his seat between her and Prudence. ‘I did not expect to see him here today.’

‘Do you mean the man with the vase?’ said Miss Kimpshott.

‘Yes.’

‘Why should we have nothing to do with him?’

‘Because he is a-a nincompoop .’

‘Most men are,’ was the placid reply. ‘So my cousin tells me.’ After a little pause she said, ‘ Lord Carlyle?’

Mr Shelbourne winced.

‘Is he a duke?’

‘No. Merely a viscount. And a ramshackle one at that.’

Miss Kimpshott looked with more interest at the vase-bearing viscount. Mr Shelbourne was cast into the doldrums again.

When all the poetical offerings had been made, Lord Carlyle presented the suitably oratory attitude of Cicero – his hand extended, a scroll clutched to his heart – or in Lord Carlyle’s case, a crushed poem, and then he began to read.

Prudence considered it a merciful thing that the remit was for a mere six lines of verse in praise of Cupid; had there been no curtailment to the number of lines it would have been dreadful to endure endless verses. There was only so much one could stomach of arrows taking flight in the soft moonlight , and such variants.

“ Oh, Lady Heath, fair muse of love’s sweet grace,

In Cupid’s realm, your presence finds its place,” recited Lord Carlyle.

‘This is one of Mr Bancroft’s ditties,’ whispered the dowager to Prudence. ‘He always waxes lyrical to Sally.’

‘Sally?’ said Prudence.

‘My daughter-in-law. Lady Heath.’

‘Ah, I see.’

“ Through valleys of dreams, our souls intertwine,

Love’s sweet melody, an eternal valentine.”

The dowager rolled her eyes. Prudence stifled a smile and joined in the polite applause when the poem ended.

There then followed a good deal of Cupid taking aim and igniting passion’s flame and so forth. Poem number eight was a pleasant respite.

“’ Tis Valentine’s Day, when arrows fly,

And Cupid aims with a squinty eye.

His aim’s not always true, I say,

For he hit my cat, and not my fancy piece today.

Feathers n’fur were alike all a-flutter,

My fancy piece is fled and my cat soothed with butter.”

There were a few titters hastily disguised as coughs. Lady Heath threw her mother-in-law a reproachful look. The dowager twinkled merrily.

One poem concluded with ‘ Oh, Regina fair, in love’s embrace, may Cupid’s arrow find its place.’ Mr Shelbourne looked misty eyed while Miss Kimpshott retained her serene countenance. No cupid’s arrow had found its place in her breast, thought Prudence.

Their own poem was the last to be read, and enjoyed a weak reception.

“In forget-me-not skies, Cupid takes flight,

His arrows are sharpened, and love’s his delight.

With an aim so wild and with wings so small,

He shoots his darts to bring hearts into thrall.

Chubby cheeks and a mischievous grin,

Love-struck chaos, let the fun begin!”

‘Chubby cheeks? Let the fun begin?’ repeated Mr Shelbourne, paling.

‘Those were my lines,’ confessed Miss Kimpshott. ‘Is it very bad? It is just how I imagine Cupid to be.’

Mr Shelbourne’s inner struggle showed on his face. Could anything the light of his life do or say be very bad?

‘It is the work of a noviciate,’ he said at last. It was the best compromise he could make between love and art.

There now followed a deal of whispered discussion between Lady Heath and her paramour.

‘They are deciding the winner,’ the dowager informed Prudence. ‘It is usually Mr Bancroft as reward for being a toadeater.’

But the winner was a lady of the name of Miss Fitzgeorge, whose arrows tipped in passion’s tender hue was pronounced sublime.

‘I’d like to know how that spinsterish old prune knows anything of passion,’ confided the dowager.

Miss Fitzgeorge was crowned with her prize – a wreath of laurel leaves. Lord Carlyle, the bestower, held up the laurel crown in the attitude of Perseus holding aloft the head of Medusa. Miss Fitzgeorge expressed all the gratitude appropriate to the occasion .

A sulky man who proved to be Mr Bancroft was given second place. He cheered up a degree at this award, and received his prize of a sprig of laurel to wear in his buttonhole. Third place went to Mr Shelbourne who graciously received his posey of flowers. A pair of folding doors now opened and the guests were invited to refresh themselves in the dining room.

Lord Heath made his way to his mother to assist her into the dining room, but she said, ‘Go away, Charles. I want Miss Grace to take me in. She is the only one here who liked my poem.’

‘But Miss Grace is too delicate to support you, Mama,’ protested Lord Heath.

Prudence assured him she could very well support Lady Heath the short distance, for the dowager was a bird-like little creature, even smaller than herself.

‘What a feast!’ Miss Kimpshott exclaimed. She was just behind Prudence, on the arm of Mr Shelbourne who was jealously shielding her from Lord Carlyle. A long table stood covered with tea and coffee pots and silver pots of hot chocolate. There were biscuits and jellies and creams, and sweetmeats of every kind.

‘What may I get you, ma’am?’ said Prudence, when the dowager was seated on a cushioned chair.

‘Tea. Green. With lemon.’

‘Nothing to eat, ma’am?’

‘Just tea. I don’t hold with sweets.’

Prudence took two cups of tea and a macaroon for herself.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ said the dowager, her hand a little shaky as she took the cup. ‘You must not let me monopolise you. Sally will introduce you round.’

‘I should like to sit with you, if you have no objection. I enjoyed your poem. ’

They shared a laugh, and sat happily chatting about all kinds of things until Mr Shelbourne asked if Prudence would like to see the gardens before they drove back to Bath.

‘Run away, now,’ ordered the dowager. ‘Go and see Sally’s hortensias. The views over the river are worth looking at, which is more than I can say for anyone here. Off with you.’

The gardens were very pleasing, and the views over the river Avon even more so. Mr Shelbourne murmured of liquid hymns to nature and similar ejaculations, and the ladies agreed that it had been a very pleasant morning, and the riverside views were quite the highlight of the day.

It was a great pity that upon their taking their leave of the salon Lord Carlyle managed to bypass Mr Shelbourne’s jealous watch over Miss Kimpshott and not only enquire of her where she was residing in town, and if she were receiving callers, but also extracted a promise of a dance with her at the next weekly assembly.

This marred the journey home, for Mr Shelbourne was cast into the deepest dejection for most of it. Prudence did manage to bring him round by the time they reached Laura Place, but she felt rather fatigued by the time she entered the house from the exertion of supporting the young man’s spirits for two and a half miles.

She was very glad to be greeted by Constance’s smiling face, for she was in very good humour. Dr Blythe had pronounced her able to spend the remaining months of her confinement at home, so long as she did not over exert herself or fail to continue with his physic. Finn would be with them in four days’ time, and after a day or two to rest from the journey, they would all return to Lindford.

Prudence was pleased to hear this, but also surprised to find that she was more than a little sorry to leave her new friends in Bath. She had enjoyed herself more than she expected. There were still many arrangements she wished to make on Mrs Smithyman’s behalf; she felt a pang of guilt that she had allowed herself to get so distracted in pleasure-seeking, and had lapsed in her efforts. She must exert herself promptly from tomorrow.